The Tower
by kinzeylee
Summary: She counts time by the periods of light and dark. (a re-education speculation/au)
1. Part I - Second Coming

AN: a short, probably au take on re-education, featuring Sydney. Of course, I don't own Bloodlines.

Summary: She counts time by the periods of light and dark. (a re-education speculation/au)

**Part I – Second Coming**

* * *

263 days. Two hundred sixty three days since she was captured. 263.

* * *

But of course that's only relative. She counts by the periods of light and dark. They are never equal or constant, but it's the only thing she has to go on right now. There's no sun here, no moon; only time.

.

And even then she's unsure. _How can you really measure time without a watch? How can you be sure that it exists?_ She tried to count by scratching lines into her skin but they made her stop. No more lines, no more time. No more.

-We could be sitting in eternity without even knowing it. We could live forever in a moment-

.

She's beginning to sound like Adrian.

_That's not good, is it? No, probably not._

She's always been the logical one, the clinical one; the one in control. She still is, in a way.

_Control your impulses; make them think you're a lamb. But you're not. You're the lion._

_ Don't use it yet. Keep it hidden. You'll need it one day, when they try to re-ink you. It' won't work._

It can't work.

(You were a firecracker in the beginning, snapping off short responses that would make Adrian proud. Not anymore. You realized early on that the only way to get out was to play along. Make the change believable, of course, but make the change.)

_I'm ready to confess my sins._

And what a long list they make.

.

That's about all she controls.

The rest is them: the lights, the sound, the food, the drugs.

265, 266.

The cross in the wall taunts her, winking behind the glass, and she longs to touch it, to fasten it around her neck and feel the weight of the wood against her chest.

_You can have it_, they say, _as a sign of our good will._ And she says no, the first six times. (Seven's the charm.)

* * *

She thinks, because there's nothing else to do.

She thinks of Keith, and how he raped her sister. And how she made a deal with the devil for vengeance (revenge). And how he's now an empty body with a glass eye.

She thinks of Rose, the vampire (friend?) who she helped on the run. Rose, who killed a man. Rose, who dropped her like a hot potato when it was convenient. (Rose, who's probably helping Adrian tear the world apart looking for you. Probably. Probably?)

She thinks of Zoe, who turned her in. There is a pain in her chest that no words can describe.

* * *

267.

268.

* * *

She recites facts to dull the boredom.

_The Coliseum has over 80 entrances and could accommodate around 50,000 spectators…_

* * *

You mentioned to us in a previous session that he "dabbled."

Only once.

A man who only rapes once is still considered a rapist.

It's not the same.

How so?

He didn't mean to. He –they – were both drunk.

But that's only his word.

I guess.

Guess?

* * *

_ You're ready for the next level_, they say, and she smiles but her heart spasms in fear. She knew it was going to get worse.

It does.

* * *

_Many roman roads exist to this day, 2000 years after they were made. The exact recipe for roman concrete used in these roads has been lost…_

* * *

She discovers that there are other things here, besides humans. There are vampires here too.

Some of them are Moroi, clinically and criminally insane.

Some of them are not.

* * *

She thinks of Adrian, and how he will come for her, break her out, somehow. How they'll run towards each other and embrace and he will never, ever let her go.

She thinks of Adrian, with his stylishly messy brown hair, with his striking features that remind her of a marble statue, a work of art.

She thinks of Adrian, with his re- no, no, green eyes, they were definitely green. Forest green, but bright with feverish inspiration. With love.

She can't remember what he smells like anymore.

* * *

She recites poetry too, when the facts get too monotonous. Poetry is emotion; poetry does not rely upon the facts. _Poetry transcends the confines of reality and reaches into the recesses of the soul._

Or that's what he would say.

If he was here.

She hears his voice ringing in the hollow of her ears when the lights go out and thinks, _maybe he is._

_._

Where are you?

Looking for you, you know that. I would never stop looking for you, not if I had to go to the ends of the Earth. I will find you.

It's already been so long. 269 days.

Nay, my lady, tis but two months.

So little? Nay then, let the devil wear black, for I'll have a suit of sables. O heavens! Die two months ago, and not forgotten yet? Then there's hope a great man's memory may outlive his life half a year…

She watches Hamlet play out on the opposite wall and knows this can't possibly be a good sign but thinks at _least it's something new._

* * *

There are mazes here. Or maybe just one large maze.

They have thick white walls made out of something smooth and hard. It's no use to try and climb them; the sides are free of any imperfections, any ridges that might be used as hand holds. Just run.

She catches sight of two burning red orbs cutting through the darkness, approaching at a terrifying pace, and run she does.

* * *

This vampire. He was a spirit user, correct?

Yes.

Can you describe for us what abilities a spirit user has?

Healing, compulsion, dream-walking, aura reading. And telekinesis, or something like that. I only saw it used once.

By him.

No, not by him. By others.

But he could do it. He could do everything you've just described if he wanted.

Well hypothetically, but each user has their own strengths and weaknesses.

Which ones are his strengths?

Dream-walking and aura reading, I guess. And compulsion. He can heal, but it doesn't come as easily for him as it does for Lissa.

Lissa?

Queen Vasilisa Dragomir.

I see. And did he ever use these…powers…on you?

Just the dream-walking and aura reading. That's all.

And how would you know that?

Sorry?

How do you know that he didn't use compulsion on you? You wouldn't remember if he did.

I know he wouldn't do that. I trust him.

Do you, Sydney? Or did he tell you to?

I-

* * *

-met a lady in the meads

Full beautiful – a faery's child

Her hair was long, her foot was light

And her eyes were wild.

* * *

Just a few more days, she tells herself, and cringes because it has already been years. She remembers so much of it, and so little. It floats out of her grasp, the echoes of smoke from birthday candles blown out too hastily. (Let me just rephrase that wish, please.) She wonders what she would wish for now.

As much as she doesn't remember from this life, and the last, she remembers so much in words. They twist in circles and dance in her head, knotting into an endless loop, and isn't it funny that I had to come down here to realize how skilled I am with them, how much they seem to live on the tip of my tongue and in the crooks of my skin? And I thought only he was the artist. _We dance a tumbled, twisted knot/our feet in rusted circuitry/the clock strikes what it once begot/this mask, my new identity…_

Day twists into night twists into day, and she goes on.

270.

* * *

_ This is the last phase_, they say, with kind smiles and cold eyes. _You're to be commended, Sydney, for your excellent recovery. But remember, you still have much to atone for. You must continue to fight the darkness from retaking your soul as you do our work._

She watches their calculating faces, the chair that she will soon sit in, with a mixture of anticipation and horror. This is it. This is it. Don't mess it up here.

_I am ready to have the darkness purged_, she says with just the right mixture of automaton and walking corpse. Their smiles get impossibly boarder, each one stretching into a rubber rictus.

_Have a seat, Sydney_, one says, _this will all be over in a minute._

Oh yes it will be.

Because this might not work. She was never sealed, there was never enough time, and now there's no time. She has to trust her magic. Her magic that she kept hidden, her magic that they know nothing about. She has to believe it will save her.

She walks to the chair on wooden legs. Sitting down ramps up the edginess to her frame by a thousand and she can feel the nervous energy vibrate in her being. She contains it and exhales out slowly. This will work, this has to work, her human magic will conquer the vampire compulsion.

Unless…

Unless they aren't going to use vampire magic. Unless they somehow found out and the magic they're going to use is _human_.

Her heart stutters and then picks up double time, and behind the solid mask she wears the fear is bubbling, looking for a way out. She never considered that, not in all the time she had to think here. All of this could end, all for nothing, right now, because she was careless enough to not account for all the variables. _Logical and rational are you, Sage?_

The hierophant has finished preparations and brings the needle to her cheek. And this could be the last time that Sydney Sage lives, thinks, draws breath, right here in this chair surrounded by wolves, while she may or may not be the lion. This could be it.

_No. The center will hold. Believe it_, she thinks, and gasps when the needle hits home.

It's funny, but she can't quite remember what that means anymore.

(and what rough beast, it's hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?)

* * *

Poems Used: _The Second Coming_ by Yeats, _La Bella Dame Sans Merci_ by Keats, and one I made up.

Plays: _The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark_ by Shakespeare

Part II is coming soon.


	2. Part II - Ash Wednesday

**Part II – Ash Wednesday**

* * *

Because I do not hope to turn again  
Because I do not hope  
Because I do not hope to turn

·

* * *

There's a fog covering the land, the faces of the people, and she walks around in a misted cloud of paper work in a base that she's pretty sure she once broke into.

But when the fog breaks, it is glorious.

Very literally. She's walking outside and the sun is shining down on her from a brilliant blue sky, and suddenly, for no discernible cause, she comes back to herself, fits into the hollow limbs of a ghost and _breathes_. The sun is dazzling, blinding even, to eyes that haven't seen properly in so long. She has to collapse onto a bench just from the shock. And wonder. Because she made it. Her magic ate through the compulsion and now she's here, free.

Except not quite. A glance at her watch tells her that work starts in twenty minutes, and she really can't be late. If she's late, the game's up and they'll know something's off, and then back into the brig for her…

She stumbles to her feet and marches as fast as she can, back into the lion's den. She needs to keep appearances. Find a way out, of course, but keep up the front. The alchemist building sits silently as she approaches, judging every move she makes, and for the first time since she started working there she feels terror. Free from the cloud, she is now a slave to her emotions.

But Sydney Sage is nothing if not courageous, so she enters anyway, fear dripping down the bend of her spine.

·

* * *

Two weeks later of shallow breathing and minor heart-attacks, and she's beginning to wonder if this is the real way they control the people after re-education. Maybe the compulsion is just a sham, and it's the _fear_. The fear's enough to keep any one inline. The fear of the alchemists breathing down your neck, their wiry fingers clenched around your collar, ready to yank you back into the depths of hell…

_Stop being paranoid_, she tells herself, and couples it with a mental smack, but it's kind of hard when you know that they are, in fact, out to get you.

·

* * *

A Christian poetry book is the only poetry book she was allowed to have, but she sucks it all in, not caring about the content. Poetry is a pathway to the past, when the world wasn't so complicated or confusing. And she finds that she likes the Christian poems, especially William Blake. His voice is a soothing balm, even in her most manic moments.

There's T. S. Eliot, too, as well as William Butler Yeats. When she finds his poem, all the way in the back, it's like a firework goes off in her head. There's something in there, some secret message waiting to be unlocked.

She keeps the book under her pillow, hopes the meaning will filter into her brain as she sleeps.

·

* * *

_Um, Sydney…I was wondering if…maybe you'd like to catch dinner with me, sometime_, Ian says on one of those very frequent occasions when he stops by her cubical for a visit. She always hates it when he wanders over because hiding her relative freedom when speaking directly to someone is a difficult task, and his eyes always seem to hold a nauseating amount of pity, but this time he looks hopeful and…oh god.

No doubt a higher-up suggested this to him, but it probably didn't take much convincing for him to agree, and now he's here…asking her out.

And she really can't say no.

She keeps her response in the same dead tone that everything is phrased in nowadays, but he still perks up instantly, grinning like a fool, even as she's slowly turning to a puddle in her chair.

_Sorry_, she thinks, _I'm so sorry, I had no choice_. Because she knows, she remembers, that there's someone out there somewhere, waiting for her.

The name escapes her. (Adr…Aid…Andr..?)

·

* * *

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

In the forest of the night

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

·

* * *

She starts out by trying to sketch his nose. Then his lips. Baby steps, after all.

She's not half bad at drawing, probably from early dreams of wanting to be an architect. She keeps the drawings stashed under a floor board, and takes them out only at night. He's rather handsome, once she starts to get to a full portrait. Prominent, strong features, reminiscent of the roman marble status she so loved. _Is that what drew me to you? Art?_ He has wild brown hair and sparkling green eyes. She fills them in with Crayola pencils, and knows instinctively that the color does not do the real thing justice.

She never draws him smiling. She thinks she knows why.

_Why else did you end up there, huh, Sage? It wasn't for dressing in something other than alchemist neutrals._

Under his portrait she writes 'the voice in my head,' because it certainly isn't hers.

·

* * *

The first date goes nicely. They go to an Italian restaurant and talk about business over spaghetti and red wine. He touches her hand from across the table and her skin crawls but she smiles anyway. It's not his fault that this is happening, that this is what happened.

She remembers something about a cell phone and knows it's no one's fault but hers.

·

* * *

This is the land. We have our inheritance.

·

* * *

_Adrian._

She bolts out of bed in the dead of night, sweat and the vestiges of a nightmare clinging to her skin. She barely manages to contain her cry, and instead scrambles for the secret hiding place. She scrawls the name under his face and it _fits_, locking into place like it was always there to begin with.

Adrian.

She has a name. She has a name, a face, and a voice inside her head. Still so far from a person.

She feels a drop of water trace a line down her cheek, and almost mistakes it for sweat. _Why am I crying?_

(She's still missing the answer.)

·

* * *

And God said shall these bones live? shall these bones live?

·

* * *

More flashes come back. (A day out playing mini-golf, wandering around an ancient Greek museum.)

The memories are sketchy at best, but they're real. She treats each and every one with reverence. (Playing monopoly, making love in a snow-covered motel, taking self-defense lessons from an eccentric instructor.)

There are too many memories now to deny what she suspected, what she hoped wasn't true.

_You're in love with the thing you hate. Great job, Sage, you really screwed yourself over with this one._

It's not his voice this time; just her own.

·

* * *

She jerks awake, a mess of floundering limbs in tangled sheets and a cry of "Sage!" still ringing in her ears. There's something creeping over her skin, like a thin membrane of goo, and she rubs at it to get rid of the feeling. Still the feeling of wrongness, of invasiveness, doesn't go away. She decides that sleeping's overrated anyway and stays curled up in the dead center of the bed.

(There's something stalking her from the shadows, trying to catch her every time she closes her eyes. _They're coming, they're getting so close, too close, just run!.._)

In the morning she applies extra concealer to the purple shadows under her eyes and goes to work.

·

* * *

There is a second date that goes about the same as the first. Except at the end, when he walks her back to her apartment and kisses her at the door. It's a completely chaste exchange but still manages to leave her breathless. It does wonders on Ian's ego, who grins and says "I think you like me."

_Really, Sage, that's just tasteless. So much cheese you'd need to cut it with a butcher's knife. I, on the other hand, am an expert of the laying on of cheese and would never offend your sensibilities in such a way._

(She was remembering a different kiss, in a sorority, with a man she shouldn't love.)

·

* * *

She reads and rereads the Second Coming, pouring over it with tired eyes into the small hours of the night. There's an answer somewhere within the lines, there must be. Why else would that poem haunt her in every dream?

_Do you really not remember, Sage?_

She crosses out the third line with red pen. The center _will_ hold. She believes it, even if she's not quite sure why anymore. It's just like believing the earth's round or that your heart's beating. It just _is_.

She ponders the other lines, the ones that are less clear. What is this beast it talks about? Who is the falconer? She underlines that phrase in different colors.

The falcon cannot hear the falconer.

_Am I the falcon?_

She certainly feels like it: tossed out into the blue, wheeling about in circles with no one to call her home. Free, but utterly lost.

_I think you're reading too much into this, Sage. It's just a poem._

Since when has Adrian been the voice of reason? She's pretty sure it's supposed to be the other way around. What rough beast indeed.

(Surely some revelation is at hand…) She starts at the beginning again.

·

* * *

"Did you hear? Some Moroi broke into an alchemist base. The inboxes are blowing up about it!"

The gossip leaks into her cubicle and instantly sets ice into her veins. Please, please don't let it be…

She opens her mail and sure enough, several official notices have already been released, detailing the breach in security. She opens the newest message and reads it thoroughly. There are pictures at the end of the two perpetrators side by side.

Her breath catches in her throat. He looks even more handsome that she thought. She tries to memorize his features, sucks them in with her eyes. _This could be the last time I ever see your face._

Adrian and…Jill, that's it! Immediately her heart sinks. Jill. _What did Adrian pull you into?_

At least they fall under Moroi jurisdiction-

"-Hey, are you alright?"

She jumps so hard that her office chair recompresses when she comes down. There watching her is Ian, with something akin to suspicion in his eyes.

"He-he hurt me," she blurts out and his face is immediately filled with compassion as he draws her into an embrace and whispers soothing words into her hair. She cringes into his arms and her frantic heartbeat sounds like betrayal.

·

* * *

A couple days later Ian drops by her cubicle again, but not for a social call.

"We're being sent on a mission," he announces, the enthusiasm radiating out of every pore. "Just the two of us. But…" and the excitement dies down noticeably, "we have to go to the Moroi Court…the same time as the trial." The grin turns into a grimace. "I don't know why they did that."

_Don't play stupid_, she thinks. _They're doing it to make a point._

She nods slowly and says something along the lines of _I must do my humble part in our great work_, but in the back of her head she feels gears turning. They are rusted ancient things and the grinding is almost painful, but she does not try to stop the motion.

_Two weeks until we leave, _he says.

She'll count down the days.

·

* * *

Teach us to care and not to care  
Teach us to sit still

·

* * *

The day before they leave, she packs everything she'll need. She removes the drawings from the floor and folds them carefully. No need for the alchemists to check her room while she's away and find out that their passive little lamb is a bit less passive than she appears.

The wonderful thing about travelling with the Alchemists is no airport security checks. Somehow, they have enough sway to negate that usual precaution. A good thing, too, because the quantities and varieties of chemicals both she and Ian are carrying are definitely not legal.

They roll into Court in a rental car and Ian looks about as pale as one of the undead.

·

* * *

"You ready?" Ian asks before they go out. She checks herself once more in the mirror: smart black skirt, white blouse, and a large golden eagle pendant in place of her usual cross. Ian had asked her about it before. _My mother gave it to me when I was younger_, she explained, stroking the curved wing, and was surprised to find tears in her eyes at the thought, threatening to fall. _What does Mom think happened to me? Does she lie awake at night wondering? Does she pray?_ She had to push those thoughts aside to avoid weeping.

Her appearance is suitable. She gives a curt nod. "I am ready to do our work." She turns to find Ian frowning at her from the doorway of her room. "Is something wrong?" she asks, looking down at her clothing again. Maybe there's a spot on her skirt she didn't notice…

"You don't always have to speak like that," he says, eyes bright with earnesty. It catches her off guard.

_You bastard. You'd report me immediately if I said anything differently._

"I do everything for the fulfillment of our work," she replies, and knows it's like twisting a knife in his heart because he thinks he loves her, in some pathetically twisted way. She can't bring herself to care. (She only has a spotty recollection of real love, but even those few memories show her; it isn't this.)

They walk side by side to the function. Somehow, she finds her arm twined through his.

·

* * *

He sees her, just like the Alchemists planned. It hurts to see his face morph from overjoyed excitement to horror before her eyes. It hurts even more to remain a statue in the face of such emotion, when all she wants to do is scream and not stop until her vocal chords are torn.

His gaze goes to her chest, to the eagle pendant she's wearing instead of his cross, and at that moment it's like she can _feel_ him, feel his anguish. Spirit, it must be. She feels it lick over her skin in heady waves and can't suppress a shudder.

Eddie has to physically restrain the Moroi from rushing across the room, even if it looks from the expression on his face that he wants to do just the same thing. Ian quickly escorts her out of the building, murmuring things into her ear. She doesn't catch what he's saying.

They walk, and there is a fear inside her chest that she doesn't understand, and can't control.

·

* * *

"Tonight's the trial," Ian tells her, arms wrapped around her waist as he kisses her hair. "I have to go. But maybe it's best if…you stay here." He's obviously worried after what happened today. She nods in agreement, and he seems to relax around her, as if he thought she would try to fight the issue.

_Maybe you aren't as good an actor as you think you are, Sage._

But that can't be right; most of the time, she isn't even acting.

·

* * *

She puts on a rough glamour, a hoodie and a pair of black gloves and takes to the streets by the back stairwell when it's night. Everyone should be at the trial by now. Well, mostly everyone. It's not hard to find a group of disillusioned rich youths hanging on a street corner. She sucks in a deep breath and steels her nerves to stone.

"Hey, you guys looking for something to do?"

They glare back at her sullenly. _Just like human teenagers_, she thinks, and has to quell a hysterical giggle.

"How about some protest art?"

Apparently deviant behavior crosses the racial divide as well because their eyes light up with unholy delight and they start to grin when she pulls a spray can out of her hoodie pocket. She can't stop a shiver when she sees their teeth.

_You know, I think somewhere along the line that fake brainwashing you were pretending to have turned into the real thing. Just saying._

The paint is blood red on the white stone buildings. She leaves before the night ends and burns the hoodie in a trash can in her room.

Now she just has to wait. And hope.

·

* * *

Lord, I am not worthy  
Lord, I am not worthy  
but speak the word only.

·

* * *

They really should have expected it. _Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…_

And blowing up status with C-4 isn't exactly subtle.

She takes off running like a bat out of hell when she hears the first explosion and only stops when a minivan skids to a stop in front of her. The back door is thrown open and –

-it's him. It's really him. After all this time, and they're standing less than ten feet apart –

"Get in, Sage!" he yells, and she scrambles into the car. He yanks the door shut and she's just buckled herself in when she hears another explosion.

"That's our door!" Rose crows from the driver's seat. "Just like old times."

The car shoots forward, speeding for the section of wall that is no longer in existence, and she knows that she has Abe Mazur to thank for this because who else would be insane enough to use the exact same escape plan twice?

…or genius enough. It's a toss-up, really.

* * *

"I got your message, Sage," he tells her. "It was brilliant. Well, then again, you're brilliant, so I shouldn't have expected less. But anyway, we had just got out of the court room and when we turned to go back to our rooms, well…there it was. And it was from that poem by Yeats so I knew it had to be you, and then I remembered that eagle pin you were wearing, which, I mean, is pretty similar to a falcon, so I figured you were trying to send out a secret message that the Alchemist tattoo didn't work on you, that you were free. That's what it means, right? That you're not under their control?"

_Good job_, she thinks. _I always said that you were smart._

"Right?"

It's kind of chilly in the van. She shivers into the seat.

"Sage?"

.

"Say something."

* * *

They drive across the country, staying in sketchy motels or pulling all-nighters in the van. Rose is the one driving, so they're going to make it in half the time anyway. Dimitri sits shot gun, there to remind Rose that yes, it is necessary to stop at red lights.

In the back it's dead quiet. No amount of overzealous bickering and teasing in the front can cut the silence and tension that coats the air in the backseat. She's pressed up to the door, hands clenched into the seat fabric, and he mirrors her on the other side, but she doubts his posture is out of fear. He's been cautious this entire time, in the way he moves, in the way he speaks. He's trying not to scare her, she realizes dully.

A bit too late for that.

They're going to California. Because that's exactly what you wouldn't be expected to do, if you were caught out there in the first place, right? She hopes so. She doesn't want to travel anymore.

Ms. Terwilliger meets them just outside Palm Springs with a new car, and immediately enfolds her in a bony hug. She groans when she sees who's in the driver's seat of the new van. _Really? They're still together?_

"Let's get this operation on the road," Wolfe says in his gravelly tone, as they all pile into the van. "Actually, this reminds me of a time in Russia, when I and a CIA operative…"

She wants to die, here and now. Almost anything would be better than this. But God is not so kind, and she's forced to listen to twenty-seven consecutive stories, sandwiched between two vampires, on the way to Inez's house.

_Things could be worse, Sage. Things could definitely be worse._

_You're right, Adrian. We could all be running blindly through a maze with Strigoi hot on our tail. But that's about the only way it could be worse._

He's right beside her, she realizes with a start. But she's still hearing his voice in her head. _And worse, you actually answered me._ Maybe it's spirit. Maybe he can speak telepathically now.

_Or maybe you've finally lost it. Always thought it was going to be me first, huh? But look who's three fries short of a happy meal now…_

She focuses in on Wolfe's story with renewed enthusiasm.

* * *

They finally arrive, so she'll never know exactly how her old self-defense teacher managed to escape from the pit filled with lions, tigers _and_ bears, but no one else in the car seems that cut up about it. Inez is waiting outside for them, a frown decorating her face. She wonders how they roped Inez into this, and really hopes a bargain involving her mechanical skills wasn't promised behind the scenes.

Either way, they're led into the guest bedroom, which is covered in roses, and is somehow supposed to house four people for an undisclosed amount of time. She sits down on the side of bed anyway, and feels the mattress sink when he sits next to her, far enough away to give her space, but too close for comfort. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Rose and Dimitri standing in the corner. Rose is making a cutting motion with her hands and shaking her head, trying and failing to be subtle.

He's there. He's right there. First a picture, then a name, then a voice in her head, and now a person. A real live person after all this time and _do something, for God's sake, Sage, don't just sit there!_

The three feet between them stretches on forever.

·

It takes eight minutes for her to work up the courage to find herself in his embrace, and it isn't anything like the reunions she imagined in her head, but as they just cling to each other, just hold on, she thinks it's not so bad, either.

They're together, they're alive, and she hopes that one of these day, they'll begin to live.

(it's nice to know that all that counting was a count-up to this.)

·

And let my cry come unto Thee.

* * *

Poems Used: _The Tyger_ by William Blake, _Ash Wednesday_ by T. S. Eliot, and _The Second Coming_ by William Butler Yeats.

AN: So...I really wasn't expecting this. I only intended for this to be a one-and-done sort of story, but then it started growing. As of now I'm planning to do one more part that sums up all of the loose threads I left hanging, and that incorporates everything I was planning to put in but couldn't fit into just this second part. So Part III is in the works right now, but it might take longer to finish since our family is going college-hunting soon, and I'll be away from the computer. Hope you enjoyed so far!


End file.
